Riders of the Purple Sage

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"What of that?" he asked. "Of course they love you. But they'reMormon women."

Jane's old, rebellious loyalty clashed with her doubt.

"I won't believe it," she replied, stubbornly.

"Well then, just act natural an' talk natural, an' prettysoon--give them time to hear us--pretend to go over there to thetable, en' then quick-like make a move for the door en' open it."

"I will," said Jane, with heightened color. Lassiter was right;he never made mistakes; he would not have told her unless hepositively knew. Yet Jane was so tenacious of faith that she hadto see with her own eyes, and so constituted that to employ evensuch small deceit toward her women made her ashamed, and angryfor her shame as well as theirs. Then a singular thoughtconfronted her that made her hold up this simple ruse-- whichhurt her, though it was well justified--against the deceit shehad wittingly and eagerly used toward Lassiter. The differencewas staggering in its suggestion of that blindness of which hehad accused her. Fairness and justice and mercy, that she hadimagined were anchor-cables to hold fast her soul torighteousness had not been hers in the strange, biased duty thathad so exalted and confounded her.

Presently Jane began to act her little part, to laugh and playwith Fay, to talk of horses and cattle to Lassiter. Then she madedeliberate mention of a book in which she kept records of allpertaining to her stock, and she walked slowly toward the table,and when near the door she suddenly whirled and thrust it open.Her sharp action nearly knocked down a woman who had undoubtedlybeen listening.

"Hester," said Jane, sternly, "you may go home, and you need notcome back."

Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing unsteadily,she put her hand on his arm. She let him see that doubt had gone,and how this stab of disloyalty pained her.

"Spies! My own women!...Oh, miserable!" she cried, with flashing,tearful eyes.

"I hate to tell you," he replied. By that she knew he had longspared her. "It's begun again--that work in the dark."

"Nay, Lassiter--it never stopped!"

So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fledWithersteen House and fled forever. The women who owed much toJane Withersteen changed not in love for her, nor in devotion totheir household work, but they poisoned both by a thousand actsof stealth and cunning and duplicity. Jane broke out once andcaught them in strange, stone-faced, unhesitating falsehood.Thereafter she broke out no more. She forgave them because theywere driven. Poor, fettered, and sealed Hagars, how she pitiedthem! What terrible thing bound them and locked their lips, whenthey showed neither consciousness of guilt toward theirbenefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart oflong-established and dear ties?

There came a time when no words passed between Jane and herwomen. Silently they went about their household duties, andsecretly they went about the underhand work to which they hadbeen bidden. The gloom of the house and the gloom of itsmistress, which darkened even the bright spirit of little Fay,did not pervade these women. Happiness was not among them, butthey were aloof from gloom. They spied and listened; theyreceived and sent secret messengers; and they stole Jane's booksand records, and finally the papers that were deeds of herpossessions. Through it all they were silent, rapt in a kind oftrance. Then one by one, without leave or explanation orfarewell, they left Withersteen House, and neverreturned.

Coincident with this disappearance Jane's gardeners and workersin the alfalfa fields and stable men quit her, not even askingfor their wages. Of all her Mormon employees about the greatranch only Jerd remained. He went on with his duty, but talked nomore of the change than if it had never occurred.

"Jerd," said Jane, "what stock you can't take care of turn out inthe sage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and Night.Keep them in perfect condition. Run them every day and watch themalways."

Though Jane Withersteen gave them such liberality, she loved herpossessions. She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, andthe farms, and the grove, and the old stone house, and thebeautiful, ever-faithful amber spring, and every one of a myriadof horses and colts and burros and fowls down to the smallestrabbit that nipped her vegetables; but she loved best her nobleArabian steeds. In common with all riders of the upland sage Janecherished two material things--the cold, sweet, brown water thatmade life possible in the wilderness and the horses which were apart of that life. When Lassiter asked her what Lassiter would bewithout his guns he was assuming that his horse was part ofhimself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it was hernature to love all beautiful creatures--perhaps all livingthings; and then she loved them because she herself was of thesage and in her had been born and bred the rider's instinct torely on his four-footed brother. And when Jane gave Jerd theorder to keep her favorites trained down to the day it was ahalf-conscious admission that presaged a time when she would needher fleet horses.

Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils thatwere closing round her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the Augustdays began; she required constant care; there was little Fay tolook after; and such household work as was imperative. Lassiterput Bells in the stable with the other racers, and directed hisefforts to a closer attendance upon Jane. She welcomed thechange. He was always at hand to help, and it was her fortune tolearn that his boast of being awkward around women had its rootin humility and was not true.

His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of wayswhich a woman might have envied. He shared Jane's work, and wasof especial help to her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The womansuffered most at night, and this often broke Jane's rest. So itcame about that Lassiter would stay by Mrs. Larkin during theday, when she needed care, and Jane would make up the sleep shelost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindly to thegentle Lassiter, and, without ever asking who or what he was,praised him to Jane. "He's a good man and loves children," shesaid. How sad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom Janethought lost beyond all redemption! Yet ever and ever Lassitertowered above her, and behind or through his black, sinisterfigure shone something luminous that strangely affected Jane.Good and evil began to seem incomprehensibly blended in herjudgment. It was her belief that evil could not come forth fromgood; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed in gentleness,patience, and love any man she had ever known.

She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when earlyone morning Judkins presented himself before her in thecourtyard.

Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him,with his leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots wornthrough on the stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. Hewore two guns and carried a Winchester.

Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread anddrink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. The menexchanged glances, and the meaning of Lassiter's keen inquiry andJudkins's bold reply, both unspoken, was not lost upon Jane.

"Where's your hoss?" asked Lassiter, aloud.

"Left him down the slope," answered Judkins. "I footed it in aways, an' slept last night in the sage. I went to the place youtold me you 'moss always slept, but didn't strike you."

"I moved up some, near the spring, an' now I go there nights."

"Judkins--the white herd?" queried Jane, hurriedly.

"Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I've not lost a steer. Fera good while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed notrouble. Why, even the sage dogs left us. But it's begunagin--thet flashin' of lights over ridge tips, an' queer puffin'of smoke, en' then at night strange whistles en' noises. But theherd's acted magnificent. An' my boys, say, Miss Withersteen,they're only kids, but I ask no better riders. I got the laugh inthe village fer takin' them out. They're a wild lot, an' you knowboys hev more nerve than grown men, because they don't know whatdanger is. "I'm not denyin' there's danger. But they glory in it,an' mebbe I like it myself--anyway, we'll stick. We're goin' todrive the herd on the far side of the first break of Deception Pass.There's a great round valley over there, an' no ridges or pilesof rocks to aid these stampeders. The rains are due. We'll hevplenty of water fer a while. An' we can hold thet herd fromanybody except Oldrin'. I come in fer supplies. I'll pack acouple of burros an' drive out after dark to-night."

"Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter willhelp you. I--I can't thank you enough...but--wait."

Jane went to the room that had once been her father's, and from asecret chamber in the thick stone wall she took a bag of gold,and, carrying it back to the court, she gave it to the rider.

"There, Judkins, and understand that I regard it as little foryour loyalty. Give what is fair to your boys, and keep the rest.Hide it. Perhaps that would be wisest."

"Judkins, you know I'm a rich woman. I tell you I've few faithfulfriends. I've fallen upon evil days. God only knows what willbecome of me and mine! So take the gold."

She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and lefthim with Lassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low at first,then in louder accents emphasized by the thumping of his rifle onthe stones. "As infernal a job as even you, Lassiter, ever heerdof."

"Why, son," was Lassiter's reply, "this breakin' of MissWithersteen may seem bad to you, but it ain't bad--yet. Some ofthese wall-eyed fellers who look jest as if they was walkin' inthe shadow of Christ himself, right down the sunny road, now theycan think of things en' do things that are really hell-bent."

Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there likecaged lioness she paced to and fro till the coming of little Fayreversed her dark thoughts.

The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain awhileJane was resting in the court, a horseman clattered through hegrove and up to the hitching-rack. He leaped off and approachedJane with the manner of a man determined to execute difficultmission, yet fearful of its reception. In the gaunt, wiry figureand the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her Mormonriders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkins had long since spoken.Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owed her the most, andas he stepped before her, removing his hat and making manlyefforts to subdue his emotion, he showed that he remembered.

"Miss Withersteen, mother's dead," he said.

"Oh--Blake!" exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more.

"She died free from pain in the end, and she's buried--resting atlast, thank God!...I've come to ride for you again, if you'llhave me. Don't think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy.When she was living and your riders quit, I had to also. I wasafraid of what might be done--said to her....Miss Withersteen,we can't talk of--of what's going on now--"

"Blake, do you know?"

"I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. Butwithout explanation or excuse I offer my services. I'm aMormon--I hope a good one. But--there are some things!...It's nouse, Miss Withersteen, I can't say any more--what I'd like to.But will you take me back?"

"Miss Withersteen, it's a liberty on my part to speak so, but Iknow you pretty well--know you'll never give in. I wouldn't if Iwere you. And I--I must--Something makes me tell you the worst isyet to come. That's all. I absolutely can't say more. Will youtake me back--let me ride for you--show everybody what Imean?"

"Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me whenthey quit!" Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splashdown upon her hands. "I thought so much of them--tried so hard tobe good to them. And not one was true. You've made it easy toforgive. Perhaps many of them really feel as you do, but dare notreturn to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate to take you back. Yet Iwant you so much."

"Do it, then. If you're going to make your life a lesson toMormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right isright. I believe in you, and here's my life to prove it."

"You hint it may mean your life!" said Jane, breathless and low.

"We won't speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do whatevery rider aches in his secret heart to do for you....MissWithersteen, I hoped it'd not be necessary to tell you that mymother on her deathbed told me to have courage. She knew how thething galled me--she told me to come back....Will you take me?"

"God bless you, Blake! Yes, I'll take you back. And willyou--will you accept gold from me?"

"Miss Withersteen!"

"I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I'll give you one. If youwill not take it you must not come back. You might ride for me afew months-- weeks--days till the storm breaks. Then you'd havenothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We'll forearm youagainst poverty, and me against endless regret. I'll give yougold which you can hide--till some future time."

"Well, if it pleases you," replied Blake. "But you know I neverthought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want tosee this man Lassiter. Is he here?"

"Yes, but, Blake--what--Need you see him? Why?" asked Jane,instantly worried. "I can speak to him--tell him about you."

"That won't do. I want to--I've got to tell him myself. Where ishe?"

"Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I'll call him,"answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for therider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step--then his tallform crossed the threshold.

"Lassiter, here's Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come backto me and he wishes to speak to you."

Blake's brown face turned exceedingly pale.

"Yes, I had to speak to you," he said, swiftly. "My name's Blake.I'm a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I'vecome to beg her to take me back. Now I don't know you; but Iknow--what you are. So I've this to say to your face. It wouldnever occur to this woman to imagine--let alone suspect me to bea spy. She couldn't think it might just be a low plot to comehere and shoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen hasn't that kindof a mind....Well, I've not come for that. I want to help her--topull a bridle along with Judkins and--and you. The thing is--doyou believe me?"

"They're gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorntold me, and I rode down to see for myself."

"Lassiter--did you know?" asked Jane, whirling to him.

"I reckon so....But what was the use to tell you?"

It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying thestone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding ofwhat she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not riseimmediately from such a blow.

"My horses! My horses! What's become of them?"

"Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring....And Itrailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass."

"My red herd's gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next.I can stand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would belike parting with my own flesh and blood. Lassiter--Blake--am Iin danger of losing my racers?"

"A rustler--or--or anybody stealin' hosses of yours would most ofall want the blacks," said Lassiter. His evasive reply wasaffirmative enough. The other rider nodded gloomyacquiescence.

"Oh! Oh!" Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.

"Let me take charge of the blacks?" asked Blake. "One more riderwon't be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Starand Night, if you put such store on their value."

"Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there's another reasonwhy I mustn't lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerdevery day when he runs the horses, and don't let them out of yoursight. If you would please me--win my gratitude, guard my blackracers."

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiterregarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the dayssped by.

"'Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on themhosses. Now I ain't gainsayin' that the Arabians are thehandsomest hosses I ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an' runneck en' neck with Black Star."

"Lassiter, don't tease me now. I'm miserable--sick. Bells isfast, but he can't stay with the blacks, and you know it. OnlyWrangle can do that."

"I'll bet that big raw-boned brute can more'n show his heels toyour black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase,Wrangle could kill your favorites."

"No, no," replied Jane, impatiently. "Lassiter, why do you saythat so often? I know you've teased me at times, and I believeit's only kindness. You're always trying to keep my mind offworry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?"

"I reckon so." Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time inher presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as ifcounting the silver pieces on the band. "Well, Jane, I've sort ofread a little that's passin' in your mind."

"I reckon. An' if you ever do an' get away with the blacks Iwouldn't like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle couldcatch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbehe hasn't got him now....Besides--things are happenin', an'somethin' of the same queer nature might have happened toVenters."

"God knows you're right!...Poor Bern, how long he's gone! In mytrouble I've been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I've little fearfor him. I've heard my riders say he's as keen as a wolf...."As to your reading my thoughts--well, your suggestion makes anactual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe Idreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I'vestrange dreams. I'm not always practical and thinking of my manyduties, as you said once. For instance--if I dared--if I daredI'd ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me--and hideme."

"Jane!"

The rider's sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seenLassiter's cool calm broken--when he had met little Fay, when hehad learned how and why he had come to love both child andmistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne's grave. But oneand all they could not be considered in the light of his presentagitation. Not only did Lassiter turn white--not only did he growtense, not only did he lose his coolness, but also he suddenly,violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her to hisbreast.

"Lassiter!" cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which shetook sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he releasedher. "Forgive me!" went on Jane. "I'm always forgettingyour--your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I'malways making you out more than human...only, let me say--I meantthat--about riding away. I'm wretched, sick of this--this--Oh,something bitter and black grows on my heart!"

"Jane, the hell--of it," he replied, with deep intake of breath,"is you can't ride away. Mebbe realizin' it accounts for mygrabbin' you--that way, as much as the crazy boy's rapture yourwords gave me. I don't understand myself....But the hell of thisgame is--you can't ride away."

"Tell me all. It's uncertainty that makes me a coward. It's faithand hope--blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Everyday I awake believing--still believing. The day grows, and withit doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter andhotter into my heart. Then comes night--I pray--I pray for all,and for myself--I sleep--and I awake free once more, trustful,faithful, to believe--to hope! Then, O my God! I grow and live athousand years till night again!...But if you want to see me awoman, tell me why I can't ride away--tell me what more I'm tolose--tell me the worst."

"Jane, you're watched. There's no single move of yours, exceptwhen you're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes. Thecottonwood grove's full of creepin', crawlin' men. Like Indiansin the grass. When you rode, which wasn't often lately, the sagewas full of sneakin' men. At night they crawl under your windowsinto the court, an' I reckon into the house. Jane Withersteen,you know, never locked a door! This here grove's a hummin'bee-hive of mysterious happenin's. Jane, it ain't so much thatthese soles keep out of my way as me keepin' out of theirs.They're goin' to try to kill me. That's plain. But mebbe I'm ashard to shoot in the back as in the face. So far I've seen fit towatch only. This all means, Jane, that you're a marked woman. Youcan't get away-- not now. Mebbe later, when you're broken, youmight. But that's sure doubtful. Jane, you're to lose the cattlethat's left--your home en' ranch--en' amber Spring. You can'teven hide a sack of gold! For it couldn't be slipped out of thehouse, day or night, an' hid or buried, let alone be rid offwith. You may lose all. I'm tellin' you, Jane, hopin' to prepareyou, if the worst does come. I told you once before about thatstrange power I've got to feel things."

"What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean? I am my father'sdaughter--a Mormon, yet I can't see! I've not failed inreligion--in duty. For years I've given with a free and fullheart. When my father died I was rich. If I'm still rich it'sbecause I couldn't find enough ways to become poor. What am I,what are my possessions to set in motion such intensity of secretoppression?"

"Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder."

"But, Lassiter, I would give freely--all I own to avertthis--this wretched thing. If I gave--that would leave me withfaith still. Surely my--my churchmen think of my soul? If I losemy trust in them--"

"Child, be still!" said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that had init something of pity. "You are a woman, fine en' big an' strong,an' your heart matches your size. But in mind you're a child.I'll say a little more--then I'm done. I'll never mention thisagain. Among many thousands of women you're one who has buckedagainst your churchmen. They tried you out, an' failed ofpersuasion, an' finally of threats. You meet now the cold steelof a will as far from Christlike as the universe is wide. You'reto be broken. Your body's to be held, given to some man, made, ifpossible, to bring children into the world. But your soul?...Whatdo they care for your soul?"

CHAPTER XIII. SOLITUDE AND STORM

In his hidden valley Venters awakened from sleep, and his earsrang with innumerable melodies from full-throated mockingbirds,and his eyes opened wide upon the glorious golden shaft ofsunlight shining through the great stone bridge. The circle ofcliffs surrounding Surprise Valley lay shrouded in morning mist,a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy, moving cloudalong the ramparts. The oak forest in the center was a plumed andtufted oval of gold.

He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery ofstrength she always rose with the dawn. At the moment she wasfeeding the quail she had tamed. And she had begun to tame themocking-birds. They fluttered among the branches overhead andsome left off their songs to flit down and shyly hop near thetwittering quail. Little gray and white rabbits crouched in thegrass, now nibbling, now laying long ears flat and watching thedogs.

Venters's swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bessand her pets, and Ring and Whitie. It swept over all to returnagain and rest upon the girl. She had changed. To the darktrousers and blouse she had added moccasins of her own make, butshe no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed to markthe rounded contours of a woman. The change had been to grace andbeauty. A glint of warm gold gleamed from her hair, and a tint ofred shone in the clear dark brown of cheeks. The hauntingsweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been illusive, apromise, had become a living fact. She fitted harmoniously intothat wonderful setting; she was like Surprise Valley--wild andbeautiful.

Venters leaped out of his cave to begin the day.

He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after thepassing of the summer rains. The rains were due soon. But untiltheir arrival and the necessity for his trip to the village hesequestered in a far corner of mind all thought of peril, of hispast life, and almost that of the present. It was enough to live.He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and distantfuture. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. In this home of thecliff-dwellers there were peace and quiet and solitude, andanother thing, wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight,that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand.

The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love. Hewas assimilating something from this valley of gleams andshadows. From this strange girl he was assimilating more.

The day at hand resembled many days gone before. As Venters hadno tools with which to build, or to till the terraces, heremained idle. Beyond the cooking of the simple fare there wereno tasks. And as there were no tasks, there was no system. He andBess began one thing, to leave it; to begin another, to leavethat; and then do nothing but lie under the spruces and watch thegreat cloud-sails majestically move along the ramparts, and dreamand dream. The valley was a golden, sunlit world. It was silent.The sighing wind and the twittering quail and the singing birds,even the rare and seldom-occurring hollow crack of a slidingweathered stone, only thickened and deepened that insulatedsilence.

Venters and Bess had vagrant minds.

"Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle?" inquired Venters.

"A hundred times," she replied.

"Oh, have I? I'd forgotten. I want you to see him. He'll carry usboth."

"I'd like to ride him. Can he run?"

"Run? He's a demon. Swiftest horse on the sage! I hope he'll stayin that canyon.

"He'll stay."

They left camp to wander along the terraces, into the aspenravines, under the gleaming walls. Ring and Whitie wandered inthe fore, often turning, often trotting back, open-mouthed andsolemn-eyed and happy. Venters lifted his gaze to the grandarchway over the entrance to the valley, and Bess lifted hers tofollow his, and both were silent. Sometimes the bridge held theirattention for a long time. To-day a soaring eagle attracted them.

"How he sails!" exclaimed Bess. "I wonder where his mate is?"

"She's at the nest. It's on the bridge in a crack near the top.I see her often. She's almost white."

They wandered on down the terrace, into the shady, sun-fleckedforest. A brown bird fluttered crying from a bush. Bess peepedinto the leaves. "Look! A nest and four little birds. They're notafraid of us. See how they open their mouths. They're hungry."

Rabbits rustled the dead brush and pattered away. The forest wasfull of a drowsy hum of insects. Little darts of purple, thatwere running quail, crossed the glades. And a plaintive, sweetpeeping came from the coverts. Bess's soft step disturbed asleeping lizard that scampered away over the leaves. She gavechase and caught it, a slim creature of nameless color but ofexquisite beauty.

"Jewel eyes," she said. "It's like a rabbit--afraid. We won't eatyou. There--go."

Murmuring water drew their steps down into a shallow shadedravine where a brown brook brawled softly over mossy stones.Multitudes of strange, gray frogs with white spots and black eyeslined the rocky bank and leaped only at close approach. ThenVenters's eye descried a very thin, very long green snake coiledround a sapling. They drew closer and closer till they could havetouched it. The snake had no fear and watched them withscintillating eyes.

"It's pretty," said Bess. "How tame! I thought snakes alwaysran."

"No. Even the rabbits didn't run here till the dogs chased them."

On and on they wandered to the wild jumble of massed and brokenfragments of cliff at the west end of the valley. The roar of thedisappearing stream dinned in their ears. Into this maze of rocksthey threaded a tortuous way, climbing, descending, halting togather wild plums and great lavender lilies, and going on at thewill of fancy. Idle and keen perceptions guided them equally.

"Oh, let us climb there!" cried Bess, pointing upward to a smallspace of terrace left green and shady between huge abutments ofbroken cliff. And they climbed to the nook and rested and lookedout across the valley to the curling column of blue smoke fromtheir campfire. But the cool shade and the rich grass and thefine view were not what they had climbed for. They could not havetold, although whatever had drawn them was well-satisfying.Light, sure-footed as a mountain goat, Bess pattered down atVenters's heels; and they went on, calling the dogs, eyes dreamyand wide, listening to the wind and the bees and the crickets andthe birds.

Part of the time Ring and Whitie led the way, then Venters, thenBess; and the direction was not an object. They left thesun-streaked shade of the oaks, brushed the long grass of themeadows, entered the green and fragrant swaying willows, to stop,at length, under the huge old cottonwoods where the beavers werebusy.

Here they rested and watched. A dam of brush and logs and mud andstones backed the stream into a little lake. The round, roughbeaver houses projected from the water. Like the rabbits, thebeavers had become shy. Gradually, however, as Venters and Bessknelt low, holding the dogs, the beavers emerged to swim withlogs and gnaw at cottonwoods and pat mud walls with theirpaddle-like tails, and, glossy and shiny in the sun, to go onwith their strange, persistent industry. They were the builders.The lake was a mud-hole, and the immediate environment a scarredand dead region, but it was a wonderful home of wonderfulanimals.

"Look at that one--he puddles in the mud," said Bess. "And there!See him dive! Hear them gnawing! I'd think they'd break theirteeth. How's it they can stay out of the water and under thewater?"

And she laughed.

Then Venters and Bess wandered farther, and, perhaps not allunconsciously this time, wended their slow steps to the cave ofthe cliff-dwellers, where she liked best to go.

The tangled thicket and the long slant of dust and little chipsof weathered rock and the steep bench of stone and the worn stepsall were arduous work for Bess in the climbing. But she gainedthe shelf, gasping, hot of cheek, glad of eye, with her hand inVenters's. Here they rested. The beautiful valley glittered belowwith its millions of wind-turned leaves bright-faced in the sun,and the mighty bridge towered heavenward, crowned with blue sky.Bess, however, never rested for long. Soon she was exploring, andVenters followed; she dragged forth from corners and shelves amultitude of crudely fashioned and painted pieces of pottery, andhe carried them. They peeped down into the dark holes of thekivas, and Bess gleefully dropped a stone and waited for thelong-coming hollow sound to rise. They peeped into the littleglobular houses, like mud-wasp nests, and wondered if these hadbeen store-places for grain, or baby cribs, or what; and theycrawled into the larger houses and laughed when they bumped theirheads on the low roofs, and they dug in the dust of the floors.And they brought from dust and darkness armloads of treasurewhich they carried to the light. Flints and stones and strangecurved sticks and pottery they found; and twisted grass rope thatcrumbled in their hands, and bits of whitish stone which crushedto powder at a touch and seemed to vanish in the air.

Then it was that Venters's primitive, childlike mood, like asavage's, seeing, yet unthinking, gave way to the encroachment ofcivilized thought. The world had not been made for a single day'splay or fancy or idle watching. The world was old. Nowhere couldbe gotten a better idea of its age than in this gigantic silenttomb. The gray ashes in Venters's hand had once been bone of ahuman being like himself. The pale gloom of the cave had shadowedpeople long ago. He saw that Bess had received the sameshock--could not in moments such as this escape her feelingliving, thinking destiny.

"Bern, people have lived here," she said, with wide, thoughtfuleyes.

"Yes," he replied.

"How long ago?"

"A thousand years and more."

"What were they?"

"Cliff-dwellers. Men who had enemies and made their homes highout of reach."

"They had to fight?"

"Yes."

"They fought for--what?"

"For life. For their homes, food, children, parents--for theirwomen!"

"Has the world changed any in a thousand years?"

"I don't know--perhaps a little."

"Have men?"

"I hope so--I think so."

"Things crowd into my mind," she went on, and the wistful lightin her eyes told Venters the truth of her thoughts. "I've riddenthe border of Utah. I've seen people--know how they live--butthey must be few of all who are living. I had my books and Istudied them. But all that doesn't help me any more. I want to goout into the big world and see it. Yet I want to stay here more.What's to become of us? Are we cliff-dwellers? We're alone here.I'm happy when I don't think. These--these bones that fly intodust--they make me sick and a little afraid. Did the people wholived here once have the same feelings as we have? What was thegood of their living at all? They're gone! What's the meaning ofit all--of us?"

"Bess, you ask more than I can tell. It's beyond me. Only therewas laughter here once--and now there's silence. There waslife--and now there's death. Men cut these little steps, madethese arrow-heads and mealing-stones, plaited the ropes we found,and left their bones to crumble in our fingers. As far as time isconcerned it might all have been yesterday. We're here to-day.Maybe we're higher in the scale of human beings--in intelligence.But who knows? We can't be any higher in the things for whichlife is lived at all."

"What are they?"

"Why--I suppose relationship, friendship--love."

"Love!"

"Yes. Love of man for woman--love of woman for man. That's thenature, the meaning, the best of life itself."

She said no more. Wistfulness of glance deepened intosadness.

"Come, let us go," said Venters.

Action brightened her. Beside him, holding his hand she slippeddown the shelf, ran down the long, steep slant of sliding stones,out of the cloud of dust, and likewise out of the pale gloom.

"We beat the slide," she cried.

The miniature avalanche cracked and roared, and rattled itselfinto an inert mass at the base of the incline. Yellow dust likethe gloom of the cave, but not so changeless, drifted away on thewind; the roar clapped in echo from the cliff, returned, wentback, and came again to die in the hollowness. Down on the sunnyterrace there was a different atmosphere. Ring and Whitie leapedaround Bess. Once more she was smiling, gay, and thoughtless,with the dream-mood in the shadow of her eyes.

"Bess, I haven't seen that since last summer. Look!" saidVenters, pointing to the scalloped edge of rolling purple cloudsthat peeped over the western wall. "We're in for a storm."

"Oh, I hope not. I'm afraid of storms."

"Are you? Why?"

"Have you ever been down in one of these walled-up pockets in abad storm?"

"No, now I think of it, I haven't."

"Well, it's terrible. Every summer I get scared to death and hidesomewhere in the dark. Storms up on the sage are bad, but nothingto what they are down here in the canyons. And in this littlevalley--why, echoes can rap back and forth so quick they'll splitour ears."

"We're perfectly safe here, Bess."

"I know. But that hasn't anything to do with it. The truth is I'mafraid of lightning and thunder, and thunder-claps hurt my head.If we have a bad storm, will you stay close to me?"

"Yes."

When they got back to camp the afternoon was closing, and it wasexceedingly sultry. Not a breath of air stirred the aspen leaves,and when these did not quiver the air was indeed still. Thedark-purple clouds moved almost imperceptibly out of the west.

"What have we for supper?" asked Bess.

"Rabbit."

"Bern, can't you think of another new way to cook rabbit?" wenton Bess, with earnestness.

Anything in the nature of compliment he had never before said toher, and just now he responded to a sudden curiosity to see itseffect. Bess stared as if she had not heard aright, slowlyblushed, and completely lost her poise in happy confusion.

"We've had big black clouds before this without rain," saidVenters. "But there's no doubt about that thunder. The storms arecoming. I'm glad. Every rider on the sage will hear that thunderwith glad ears."

Venters and Bess finished their simple meal and the few tasksaround the camp, then faced the open terrace, the valley, and thewest, to watch and await the approaching storm.

It required keen vision to see any movement whatever in thepurple clouds. By infinitesimal degrees the dark cloud-linemerged upward into the golden-red haze of the afterglow ofsunset. A shadow lengthened from under the western wall acrossthe valley. As straight and rigid as steel rose the delicatespear-pointed silver spruces; the aspen leaves, by nature pendantand quivering, hung limp and heavy; no slender blade of grassmoved. A gentle splashing of water came from the ravine. Thenagain from out of the west sounded the low, dull, and rumblingroll of thunder.

A wave, a ripple of light, a trembling and turning of the aspenleaves, like the approach of a breeze on the water, crossed thevalley from the west; and the lull and the deadly stillness andthe sultry air passed away on a cool wind.

The night bird of the canyon, with clear and melancholy notesannounced the twilight. And from all along the cliffs rose thefaint murmur and moan and mourn of the wind singing in the caves.The bank of clouds now swept hugely out of the western sky. Itsfront was purple and black, with gray between, a bulging,mushrooming, vast thing instinct with storm. It had a dark,angry, threatening aspect. As if all the power of the winds werepushing and piling behind, it rolled ponderously across the sky.A red flare burned out instantaneously, flashed from the west toeast, and died. Then from the deepest black of the purple cloudburst a boom. It was like the bowling of a huge boulder along thecrags and ramparts, and seemed to roll on and fall into thevalley to bound and bang and boom from cliff to cliff.

"Oh!" cried Bess, with her hands over her ears. "What did I tellyou?"

"Why, Bess, be reasonable!" said Venters.

"I'm a coward."

"Not quite that, I hope. It's strange you're afraid. I love astorm."

"I tell you a storm down in these canyons is an awful thing. Iknow Oldring hated storms. His men were afraid of them. There wasone who went deaf in a bad storm, and never could hear again."

"Maybe I've lots to learn, Bess. I'll lose my guess if this stormisn't bad enough. We're going to have heavy wind first, thenlightning and thunder, then the rain. Let's stay out as long aswe can."

The tips of the cottonwoods and the oaks waved to the east, andthe rings of aspens along the terraces twinkled their myriad ofbright faces in fleet and glancing gleam. A low roar rose fromthe leaves of the forest, and the spruces swished in the risingwind. It came in gusts, with light breezes between. As itincreased in strength the lulls shortened in length till therewas a strong and steady blow all the time, and violent puffs atintervals, and sudden whirling currents. The clouds spread overthe valley, rolling swiftly and low, and twilight faded into asweeping darkness. Then the singing of the wind in the cavesdrowned the swift roar of rustling leaves; then the song swelledto a mourning, moaning wail; then with the gathering power of thewind the wail changed to a shriek. Steadily the wind strengthenedand constantly the strange sound changed.

The last bit of blue sky yielded to the on-sweep of clouds. Likeangry surf the pale gleams of gray, amid the purple of thatscudding front, swept beyond the eastern rampart of the valley.The purple deepened to black. Broad sheets of lightning flaredover the western wall. There were not yet any ropes or zigzagstreaks darting down through the gathering darkness. The stormcenter was still beyond Surprise Valley.

"Listen!...Listen!" cried Bess, with her lips close to Venters'sear. "You'll hear Oldring's knell!"

"What's that?"

"Oldring's knell. When the wind blows a gale in the caves itmakes what the rustlers call Oldring's knell. They believe itbodes his death. I think he believes so, too. It's not like anysound on earth....It's beginning. Listen!"

The gale swooped down with a hollow unearthly howl. It yelled andpealed and shrilled and shrieked. It was made up of a thousandpiercing cries. It was a rising and a moving sound. Beginning atthe western break of the valley, it rushed along each giganticcliff, whistling into the caves and cracks, to mount in power, tobellow a blast through the great stone bridge. Gone, as into anengulfing roar of surging waters, it seemed to shoot back andbegin all over again.

It was only wind, thought Venters. Here sped and shrieked thesculptor that carved out the wonderful caves in the cliffs. Itwas only a gale, but as Venters listened, as his ears becameaccustomed to the fury and strife, out of it all or through it orabove it pealed low and perfectly clear and persistently uniforma strange sound that had no counterpart in all the sounds of theelements. It was not of earth or of life. It was the grief andagony of the gale. A knell of all upon which it blew!

Black night enfolded the valley. Venters could not see hiscompanion, and knew of her presence only through the tighteninghold of her hand on his arm. He felt the dogs huddle closer tohim. Suddenly the dense, black vault overhead split asunder to ablue-white, dazzling streak of lightning. The whole valley layvividly clear and luminously bright in his sight. Upreared, vastand magnificent, the stone bridge glimmered like some grand godof storm in the lightning's fire. Then all flashed blackagain--blacker than pitch--a thick, impenetrable coal-blackness.And there came a ripping, crashing report. Instantly an echoresounded with clapping crash. The initial report was nothing tothe echo. It was a terrible, living, reverberating, detonatingcrash. The wall threw the sound across, and could have made nogreater roar if it had slipped in avalanche. From cliff to cliffthe echo went in crashing retort and banged in lessening power,and boomed in thinner volume, and clapped weaker and weaker tilla final clap could not reach across the waiting cliff.

In the pitchy darkness Venters led Bess, and, groping his way, byfeel of hand found the entrance to her cave and lifted her up. Onthe instant a blinding flash of lightning illumined the cave andall about him. He saw Bess's face white now with dark, frightenedeyes. He saw the dogs leap up, and he followed suit. The goldenglare vanished; all was black; then came the splitting crack andthe infernal din of echoes.

Bess shrank closer to him and closer, found his hands, andpressed them tightly over her ears, and dropped her face upon hisshoulder, and hid her eyes.

Then the storm burst with a succession of ropes and streaks andshafts of lightning, playing continuously, filling the valleywith a broken radiance; and the cracking shots followed eachother swiftly till the echoes blended in one fearful, deafeningcrash.

Venters looked out upon the beautiful valley--beautiful now asnever before--mystic in its transparent, luminous gloom, weird inthe quivering, golden haze of lightning. The dark spruces weretipped with glimmering lights; the aspens bent low in the winds,as waves in a tempest at sea; the forest of oaks tossed wildlyand shone with gleams of fire. Across the valley the huge cavernof the cliff-dwellers yawned in the glare, every little blackwindow as clear as at noonday; but the night and the storm addedto their tragedy. Flung arching to the black clouds, the greatstone bridge seemed to bear the brunt of the storm. It caught thefull fury of the rushing wind. It lifted its noble crown to meetthe lightnings. Venters thought of the eagles and their loftynest in a niche under the arch. A driving pall of rain, black asthe clouds, came sweeping on to obscure the bridge and thegleaming walls and the shining valley. The lightning playedincessantly, streaking down through opaque darkness of rain. Theroar of the wind, with its strange knell and the re-crashingechoes, mingled with the roar of the flooding rain, and allseemingly were deadened and drowned in a world of sound.

In the dimming pale light Venters looked down upon the girl. Shehad sunk into his arms, upon his breast, burying her face. Sheclung to him. He felt the softness of her, and the warmth, andthe quick heave of her breast. He saw the dark, slender, gracefuloutline of her form. A woman lay in his arms! And he held hercloser. He who had been alone in the sad, silent watches of thenight was not now and never must be again alone. He who hadyearned for the touch of a hand felt the long tremble and theheart-beat of a woman. By what strange chance had she come tolove him! By what change--by what marvel had she grown into atreasure!

No more did he listen to the rush and roar of the thunder-storm.For with the touch of clinging hands and the throbbing bosom hegrew conscious of an inward storm--the tingling of new chords ofthought, strange music of unheard, joyous bells sad dreamsdawning to wakeful delight, dissolving doubt, resurging hope,force, fire, and freedom, unutterable sweetness of desire. Astorm in his breast--a storm of real love.

CHAPTER XIV. WEST WIND

When the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, and late inthe night, as his blood cooled and the stir and throb and thrillsubsided, he fell asleep.

With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed. The valley laydrenched and bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. Therain-washed walls glistened in the morning light. Waterfalls ofmany forms poured over the rims. One, a broad, lacy sheet, thinas smoke, slid over the western notch and struck a ledge in itsdownward fall, to bound into broader leap, to burst far belowinto white and gold and rosy mist.

Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man.

"It's a glorious morning," said Bess, in greeting.

"Yes. After the storm the west wind," he replied.

"Last night was I--very much of a baby?" she asked, watching him.

"Pretty much."

"Oh, I couldn't help it!"

"I'm glad you were afraid."

"Why?" she asked, in slow surprise.

"I'll tell you some day," he answered, soberly. Then around thecamp-fire and through the morning meal he was silent; afterwardhe strolled thoughtfully off alone along the terrace. He climbeda great yellow rock raising its crest among the spruces, andthere he sat down to face the valley and the west.

"I love her!"

Aloud he spoke--unburdened his heart--confessed his secret. Foran instant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the wallswaved, and all about him whirled with tumult within.

"I love her!...I understand now."

Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of thecomplications of the present amazed him with proof of how far hehad drifted from his old life. He discovered that he hated totake up the broken threads, to delve into dark problems anddifficulties. In this beautiful valley he had been living abeautiful dream. Tranquillity had come to him, and the joy ofsolitude, and interest in all the wild creatures and crannies ofthis incomparable valley--and love. Under the shadow of the greatstone bridge God had revealed Himself to Venters.

"The world seems very far away," he muttered, "but it'sthere--and I'm not yet done with it. Perhaps I never shallbe....Only--how glorious it would be to live here always andnever think again!"

Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony ofhis wish, steeped him instantly in contending thought. Out of itall he presently evolved these things: he must go to Cottonwoods;he must bring supplies back to Surprise Valley; he must cultivatethe soil and raise corn and stock, and, most imperative of all,he must decide the future of the girl who loved him and whom heloved. The first of these things required tremendous effort, thelast one, concerning Bess, seemed simply and naturally easy ofaccomplishment. He would marry her. Suddenly, as from roots ofpoisonous fire, flamed up the forgotten truth concerning her. Itseemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy on its hot, tearingway to his heart. She had been Oldring's Masked Rider. ToVenters's question, "What were you to Oldring?" she had answeredwith scarlet shame and drooping head.

"What do I care who she is or what she was!" he cried,passionately. And he knew it was not his old self speaking. Itwas this softer, gentler man who had awakened to new thoughts inthe quiet valley. Tenderness, masterful in him now, matched theabsence of joy and blunted the knife-edge of entering jealousy.Strong and passionate effort of will, surprising to him, heldback the poison from piercing his soul.

"Wait!...Wait!" he cried, as if calling. His hand pressed hisbreast, and he might have called to the pang there. "Wait! It'sall so strange--so wonderful. Anything can happen. Who am I tojudge her? I'll glory in my love for her. But I can't tellit--can't give up to it."

Certainly he could not then decide her future. Marrying her wasimpossible in Surprise Valley and in any village south ofSterling. Even without the mask she had once worn she wouldeasily have been recognized as Oldring's Rider. No man who hadever seen her would forget her, regardless of his ignorance as toher sex. Then more poignant than all other argument was the factthat he did not want to take her away from Surprise Valley. Heresisted all thought of that. He had brought her to the mostbeautiful and wildest place of the uplands; he had saved her,nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom as one of thevalley lilies; he knew her life there to be pure and sweet--shebelonged to him, and he loved her. Still these were not all thereasons why he did not want to take her away. Where could theygo? He feared the rustlers--he feared the riders--he feared theMormons. And if he should ever succeed in getting Bess safelyaway from these immediate perils, he feared the sharp eyes ofwomen and their tongues, the big outside world with its problemsof existence. He must wait to decide her future, which, afterall, was deciding his own. But between her future and hissomething hung impending. Like Balancing Rock, which waiteddarkly over the steep gorge, ready to close forever the outlet toDeception Pass, that nameless thing, as certain yet intangible asfate, must fall and close forever all doubts and fears of thefuture.

"I've dreamed," muttered Venters, as he rose. "Well, whynot?...To dream is happiness! But let me just once see thisclearly wholly; then I can go on dreaming till the thing falls.I've got to tell Jane Withersteen. I've dangerous trips to take.I've work here to make comfort for this girl. She's mine. I'llfight to keep her safe from that old life. I've already seen herforget it. I love her. And if a beast ever rises in me I'll burnmy hand off before I lay it on her with shameful intent. And, byGod! sooner or later I'll kill the man who hid her and kept herin Deception Pass!"

As he spoke the west wind softly blew in his face. It seemed tosoothe his passion. That west wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, andit carried a sweet, strange burden of far-off things--tidings oflife in other climes, of sunshine asleep on other walls--of otherplaces where reigned peace. It carried, too, sad truth of humanhearts and mystery--of promise and hope unquenchable. SurpriseValley was only a little niche in the wide world whence blew thatburdened wind. Bess was only one of millions at the mercy ofunknown motive in nature and life. Content had come to Venters inthe valley; happiness had breathed in the slow, warm air; love asbright as light had hovered over the walls and descended to him;and now on the west wind came a whisper of the eternal triumph offaith over doubt.

"How much better I am for what has come to me!" he exclaimed."I'll let the future take care of itself. Whatever falls, I'll beready."

Venters retraced his steps along the terrace back to camp, andfound Bess in the old familiar seat, waiting and watching for hisreturn.

"I went off by myself to think a little," he explained.

"You never looked that way before. What--what is it? Won't youtell me?"

"Well, Bess, the fact is I've been dreaming a lot. This valleymakes a fellow dream. So I forced myself to think. We can't livethis way much longer. Soon I'll simply have to go to Cottonwoods.We need a whole pack train of supplies. I can get--"

"Can you go safely?" she interrupted.

"Why, I'm sure of it. I'll ride through the Pass at night. Ihaven't any fear that Wrangle isn't where I left him. And once onhim--Bess, just wait till you see that horse!"

"Oh, I want to see him--to ride him. But--but, Bern, this is whattroubles me," she said. "Will--will you come back?"

"Give me four days. If I'm not back in four days you'll know I'mdead. For that only shall keep me."

"Then--there--there must be a--a woman!" Dark red mantled theclear tan of temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes ofshame, upheld a long moment by intense, straining search for theverification of her fear. Suddenly they drooped, her head fell toher knees, her hands flew to her hot cheeks.

"Bess--look here," said Venters, with a sharpness due to theviolence with which he checked his quick, surging emotion.

As if compelled against her will--answering to an irresistiblevoice-- Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes,and tried to whisper with tremulous lips.

"There's no woman," went on Venters, deliberately holding herglance with his. "Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life,can keep me away."

Her face flashed and flushed with the glow of a leaping joy; butlike the vanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as hehad never beheld her.

"I am nothing--I am lost--I am nameless!"

"Do you want me to come back?" he asked, with sudden sterncoldness. "Maybe you want to go back to Oldring!"

That brought her erect, trembling and ashy pale, with dark, proudeyes and mute lips refuting his insinuation.

"Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. But youangered me. I intend to work--to make a home for you here--to bea--a brother to you as long as ever you need me. And you mustforget what you are-- were--I mean, and be happy. When youremember that old life you are bitter, and it hurts me."

"I was happy--I shall be very happy. Oh, you're so goodthat--that it kills me! If I think, I can't believe it. I growsick with wondering why. I'm only a let me say it--only a lost,nameless--girl of the rustlers. Oldring's Girl, they called me.That you should save me--be so good and kind--want to make mehappy--why, it's beyond belief. No wonder I'm wretched at thethought of your leaving me. But I'll be wretched and bitter nomore. I promise you. If only I could repay you even alittle--"

"You've repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me?"

"Believe you! I couldn't do else."

"Then listen!...Saving you, I saved myself. Living here in thisvalley with you, I've found myself. I've learned to think while Iwas dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or somewonderful spirit, has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny thetruth of what you say about yourself. I can't explain it. Thereare things too deep to tell. Whatever the terrible wrongs you'vesuffered, God holds you blameless. I see that--feel that in youevery moment you are near me. I've a mother and a sister 'wayback in Illinois. If I could I'd take you to them--to-morrow."

"If it were true! Oh, I might--I might lift my head!" she cried.

"Lift it then--you child. For I swear it's true."

She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a partof her actions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocencewhich always tortured Venters, but now with something more--aspirit rising from the depths that linked itself to his bravewords.

"Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that lastdiscovery--before you," Venters said, and laughed.

"Oh, there's more--there's something I must tell you."

"Tell it, then."

"When will you go to Cottonwoods?"

"As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them."

"I'll tell you before you go. I can't now. I don't know how Ishall then. But it must be told. I'd never let you leave mewithout knowing. For in spite of what you say there's a chanceyou mightn't come back."

Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day after daythe clouds clustered gray and purple and black. The cliffs sangand the caves rang with Oldring's knell, and the lightningflashed, the thunder rolled, the echoes crashed and crashed, andthe rains flooded the valley. Wild flowers sprang up everywhere,swaying with the lengthening grass on the terraces, smiling wanlyfrom shady nooks, peeping wondrously from year-dry crevices ofthe walls. The valley bloomed into a paradise. Every singlemoment, from the breaking of the gold bar through the bridge atdawn on to the reddening of rays over the western wall, was oneof colorful change. The valley swam in thick, transparent haze,golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, purple in the twilight.At the end of every storm a rainbow curved down into theleaf-bright forest to shine and fade and leave lingeringly somefaint essence of its rosy iris in the air.

Venters walked with Bess, once more in a dream, and watched thelights change on the walls, and faced the wind from out of thewest.

Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-offthings. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth.It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of thepassing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women.It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was the burden of itstidings--youth in the shady woods, waders through the wetmeadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, bathers in thebooming surf, sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy hills, longstrolls down moonlit lanes--everywhere in far-off lands, fingerslocked and bursting hearts and longing lips--from all the worldtidings of unquenchable love.

Often, in these hours of dreams he watched the girl, and askedhimself of what was she dreaming? For the changing light of thevalley reflected its gleam and its color and its meaning in thechanging light of her eyes. He saw in them infinitely more thanhe saw in his dreams. He saw thought and soul and nature--strongvision of life. All tidings the west wind blew from distance andage he found deep in those dark-blue depths, and found themmysteries solved. Under their wistful shadow he softened, and inthe softening felt himself grow a sadder, a wiser, and a betterman.

While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full,teaching him a man's part, the days passed, the purple cloudschanged to white, and the storms were over for that summer.

"I must go now," he said.

"When?" she asked.

"At once--to-night."

"I'm glad the time has come. It dragged at me. Go--for you'llcome back the sooner."

Late in the afternoon, as the ruddy sun split its last flame inthe ragged notch of the western wall, Bess walked with Ventersalong the eastern terrace, up the long, weathered slope, underthe great stone bridge. They entered the narrow gorge to climbaround the fence long before built there by Venters. Farther thanthis she had never been. Twilight had already fallen in thegorge. It brightened to waning shadow in the wider ascent. Heshowed her Balancing Rock, of which he had often told her, andexplained its sinister leaning over the outlet. Shuddering, shelooked down the long, pale incline with its closed-in, topplingwalls.

"What an awful trail! Did you carry me up here?"

"I did, surely," replied he.

"It frightens me, somehow. Yet I never was afraid of trails. I'dride anywhere a horse could go, and climb where he couldn't. Butthere's something fearful here. I feel as--as if the place waswatching me."

"Look at this rock. It's balanced here--balanced perfectly. Youknow I told you the cliff-dwellers cut the rock, and why. Butthey're gone and the rock waits. Can't you see--feel how it waitshere? I moved it once, and I'll never dare again. A strong heavewould start it. Then it would fall and bang, and smash that crag,and jar the walls, and close forever the outlet to DeceptionPass!"

"Ah! When you come back I'll steal up here and push and push withall my might to roll the rock and close forever the outlet to thePass!" She said it lightly, but in the undercurrent of her voicewas a heavier note, a ring deeper than any ever given mere playof words.

"I--was--in--fun." Her voice now throbbed low. "Always you mustbe free to go when you will. Go now...this place presses onme--stifles me."

"I'm going--but you had something to tell me?"

"Yes....Will you--come back?"

"I'll come if I live."

"But--but you mightn't come?"

"That's possible, of course. It'll take a good deal to kill me. Aman couldn't have a faster horse or keener dog. And, Bess, I'veguns, and I'll use them if I'm pushed. But don't worry."

"I've faith in you. I'll not worry until after four days. Only--because you mightn't come--I must tell you--"

She lost her voice. Her pale face, her great, glowing, earnesteyes, seemed to stand alone out of the gloom of the gorge. Thedog whined, breaking the silence.

"I must tell you--because you mightn't come back," she whispered."You must know what--what I think of your goodness--of you.Always I've been tongue-tied. I seemed not to be grateful. It wasdeep in my heart. Even now--if I were other than I am--I couldn'ttell you. But I'm nothing--only a rustler'sgirl--nameless--infamous. You've saved me-- and I'm--I'm yours todo with as you like....With all my heart and soul--I love you!"

CHAPTER XV. SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE

In the cloudy, threatening, waning summer days shadows lengtheneddown the sage-slope, and Jane Withersteen likened them to theshadows gathering and closing in around her life.

Mrs. Larkin died, and little Fay was left an orphan with no knownrelative. Jane's love redoubled. It was the saving brightness ofa darkening hour. Fay turned now to Jane in childish worship. AndJane at last found full expression for the mother-longing in herheart. Upon Lassiter, too, Mrs. Larkin's death had some subtlereaction. Before, he had often, without explanation, advised Janeto send Fay back to any Gentile family that would take her in.Passionately and reproachfully and wonderingly Jane had refusedeven to entertain such an idea. And now Lassiter never advised itagain, grew sadder and quieter in his contemplation of the child,and infinitely more gentle and loving. Sometimes Jane had a cold,inexplicable sensation of dread when she saw Lassiter watchingFay. What did the rider see in the future? Why did he, day byday, grow more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in propheticassurance of something to be?

No doubt, Jane thought, the rider, in his almost superhuman powerof foresight, saw behind the horizon the dark, lengtheningshadows that were soon to crowd and gloom over him and her andlittle Fay. Jane Withersteen awaited the long-deferred breakingof the storm with a courage and embittered calm that had come toher in her extremity. Hope had not died. Doubt and fear,subservient to her will, no longer gave her sleepless nights andtortured days. Love remained. All that she had loved she nowloved the more. She seemed to feel that she was defiantlyflinging the wealth of her love in the face of misfortune and ofhate. No day passed but she prayed for all--and most ferventlyfor her enemies. It troubled her that she had lost, or had nevergained, the whole control of her mind. In some measure reason andwisdom and decision were locked in a chamber of her brain,awaiting a key. Power to think of some things was taken from her.Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, she fought ceaselessly todeny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, theintangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosive lichen eating into herheart.

On the morning of August 10th, Jane, while waiting in the courtfor Lassiter, heard a clear, ringing report of a rifle. It camefrom the grove, somewhere toward the corrals. Jane glanced out inalarm. The day was dull, windless, soundless. The leaves of thecottonwoods drooped, as if they had foretold the doom ofWithersteen House and were now ready to die and drop and decay.Never had Jane seen such shade. She pondered on the meaning ofthe report. Revolver shots had of late cracked from differentparts of the grove--spies taking snap-shots at Lassiter from acowardly distance! But a rifle report meant more. Riders seldomused rifles. Judkins and Venters were the exceptions she calledto mind. Had the men who hounded her hidden in her grove, takento the rifle to rid her of Lassiter, her last friend? It wasprobable--it was likely. And she did not share his coolassumption that his death would never come at the hands of aMormon. Long had she expected it. His constancy to her, hissingular reluctance to use the fatal skill for which he wasfamed-- both now plain to all Mormons--laid him open toinevitable assassination. Yet what charm against ambush and aimand enemy he seemed to bear about him! No, Jane reflected, it wasnot charm; only a wonderful training of eye and ear, and sense ofimpending peril. Nevertheless that could not forever availagainst secret attack.

That moment a rustling of leaves attracted her attention; thenthe familiar clinking accompaniment of a slow, soft, measuredstep, and Lassiter walked into the court.

"Jane, there's a fellow out there with a long gun," he said, and,removing his sombrero, showed his head bound in a bloody scarf.

"I heard the shot; I knew it was meant for you. Let me see--youcan't be badly injured?"

"I reckon not. But mebbe it wasn't a close call!...I'll sit herein this corner where nobody can see me from the grove." He untiedthe scarf and removed it to show a long, bleeding furrow abovehis left temple.

"It's only a cut," said Jane. "But how it bleeds! Hold your scarfover it just a moment till I come back."

She ran into the house and returned with bandages; and while shebathed and dressed the wound Lassiter talked.

"That fellow had a good chance to get me. But he must haveflinched when he pulled the trigger. As I dodged down I saw himrun through the trees. He had a rifle. I've been expectin' thatkind of gun play. I reckon now I'll have to keep a little closerhid myself. These fellers all seem to get chilly or shaky whenthey draw a bead on me, but one of them might jest happen to hitme."

"Won't you go away--leave Cottonwoods as I've begged youto--before some one does happen to hit you?" she appealed to him.

"No, Jane, I'm not one to quit when the game grows hot, no morethan you. This game, though, is new to me, an' I don't know themoves yet, else I wouldn't have stepped in front of that bullet."

"Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you--to findhim--and-- and kill him?"

"Well, I reckon I haven't any great hankerin' for that."

"Oh, the wonder of it!...I knew--I prayed--I trusted. Lassiter, Ialmost gave--all myself to soften you to Mormons. Thank God, andthank you, my friend....But, selfish woman that ] am, this is nogreat test. What's the life of one of those sneaking cowards tosuch a man as you? I think of your great hate toward him who--Ithink of your life's implacable purpose. Can itbe--"

"Wait!...Listen!" he whispered. "I hear a hoss."

He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly hepulled his sombrero down over his bandaged head and, swinging hisgun-sheaths round in front, he stepped into the alcove.

"It's a hoss--comin' fast," he added.

Jane's listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat ofhoofs. It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill that she wasat a loss to understand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Thencame a clear, sharp difference when the horse passed from thesage trail to the hard-packed ground of the grove. It became aringing run--swift in its bell-like clatterings, yet singular inlonger pause than usual between the hoofbeats of a horse.

Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all JaneWithersteen s calm. A tight band closed round her breast as shesaw the giant sorrel flit in reddish-brown flashes across theopenings in the green. Then he was pounding down thelane--thundering into the court--crashing his great iron-shodhoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, but shaggy andwild-eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staining hisflanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leapedoff, threw the bridle, and held hard on a lasso looped roundWrangle's head and neck. Janet's heart sank as she tried torecognize Venters in the rider. Something familiar struck her inthe lofty stature in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But thisbearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothes patchedwith pieces of skin, and boots that showed bare legs andfeet--this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly beVenters.

"Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So--so--so. You rehome, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of water you'llremember."

In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied Wrangleto the hitching-rack and turned to the court.

"Oh, Bern!...You wild man!" she exclaimed.

"Jane--Jane, it's good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes, it'sVenters."

Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane's. In it she felt thedifference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn--yet howsplendid! He had gone away a boy--he had returned a man. Heappeared taller, wider of shoulder, deeper-chested, morepowerfully built. But was that only her fancy--he had always beena young giant--was the change one of spirit? He might have beenabsent for years, proven by fire and steel, grown like Lassiter,strong and cool and sure. His eyes--were they keener, moreflashing than before?--met hers with clear, frank, warm regard,in which perplexity was not, nor discontent, nor pain.

"Look at me long as you like," he said, with a laugh. "I'm notmuch to look at. And, Jane, neither you nor Lassiter, can brag.You're paler than I ever saw you. Lassiter, here, he wears abloody bandage under his hat. That reminds me. Some one took aflying shot at me down in the sage. It made Wrangle runsome....Well, perhaps you've more to tell me than I've got totell you."

Briefly, in few words, Jane outlined the circumstances of herundoing in the weeks of his absence.

Under his beard and bronze she saw his face whiten in terriblewrath.

"Lassiter--what held you back?"

No time in the long period of fiery moments and sudden shocks hadJane Withersteen ever beheld Lassiter as calm and serene and coolas then.

"Jane had gloom enough without my addin' to it by shootin' up thevillage," he said.

As strange as Lassiter's coolness was Venters's curious, intentscrutiny of them both, and under it Jane felt a flaming tide wavefrom bosom to temples.

Jane sensed then a slight alteration in Venters, and what it was,in her own confusion, she could not tell. It had always been herintention to acquaint him with the deceit she had fallen to inher zeal to move Lassiter. She did not mean to spare herself. Yetnow, at the moment, before these riders, it was an impossibilityto explain.

Venters was speaking somewhat haltingly, without his formerfrankness. "I found Oldring's hiding-place and your red herd. Ilearned--I know-- I'm sure there was a deal between Tull andOldring." He paused and shifted his position and his gaze. Helooked as if he wanted to say something that he found beyond him.Sorrow and pity and shame seemed to contend for mastery over him.Then he raised himself and spoke with effort. "Jane I've cost youtoo much. You've almost ruined yourself for me. It was wrong, forI'm not worth it. I never deserved such friendship. Well, maybeit's not too late. You must give me up. Mind, I haven't changed.I am just the same as ever. I'll see Tull while I'm here, andtell him to his face."

"Bern, it's too late," said Jane.

"I'll make him believe!" cried Venters, violently.

"You ask me to break our friendship?"

"Yes. If you don't, I shall."

"Forever?"

"Forever!"

Jane sighed. Another shadow had lengthened down the sage slope tocast further darkness upon her. A melancholy sweetness pervadedher resignation. The boy who had left her had returned a man,nobler, stronger, one in whom she divined something unbending assteel. There might come a moment later when she would wonder whyshe had not fought against his will, but just now she yielded toit. She liked him as well--nay, more, she thought, only heremotions were deadened by the long, menacing wait for thebursting storm.

Once before she had held out her hand to him--when she gave it;now she stretched it tremblingly forth in acceptance of thedecree circumstance had laid upon them. Venters bowed over itkissed it, pressed it hard, and half stifled a sound very like asob. Certain it was that when he raised his head tears glistenedin his eyes.

"Some--women--have a hard lot," he said, huskily. Then he shookhis powerful form, and his rags lashed about him. "I'll say a fewthings to Tull--when I meet him."

"Bern--you'll not draw on Tull? Oh, that must not be! Promiseme--"

"I promise you this," he interrupted, in stern passion thatthrilled while it terrorized her. "If you say one more word forthat plotter I'll kill him as I would a mad coyote!"

Jane clasped her hands. Was this fire-eyed man the one whom shehad once made as wax to her touch? Had Venters become Lassiterand Lassiter Venters?

"I'll--say no more," she faltered.

"Jane, Lassiter once called you blind," said Venters. "It must betrue. But I won't upbraid you. Only don't rouse the devil in meby praying for Tull! I'll try to keep cool when I meet him.That's all. Now there's one more thing I want to ask of you--thelast. I've found a valley down in the Pass. It's a wonderfulplace. I intend to stay there. It's so hidden I believe no onecan find it. There's good water, and browse, and game. I want toraise corn and stock. I need to take in supplies. Will you givethem to me?"

"Assuredly. The more you take the better you'll please me--andperhaps the less my--my enemies will get."

"Mebbe that wouldn't be best. You'd sure be stopped. You'd bettergo early in the mornin'--say, just after dawn. That's the safesttime to move round here."

"Lassiter, I'll be hard to stop," returned Venters, darkly.

"I reckon so."

"Bern," said Jane, "go first to the riders' quarters and getyourself a complete outfit. You're a--a sight. Then help yourselfto whatever else you need--burros, packs, grain, dried fruits,and meat. You must take coffee and sugar and flour--all kinds ofsupplies. Don't forget corn and seeds. I remember how you used tostarve. Please--please take all you can pack away from here. I'llmake a bundle for you, which you mustn't open till you're in yourvalley. How I'd like to see it! To judge by you and Wrangle, howwild it must be!"

Jane walked down into the outer court and approached the sorrel.Upstarting, he laid back his ears and eyed her.

"Wrangle--dear old Wrangle," she said, and put a caressing handon his matted mane. "Oh, he's wild, but he knows me! Bern, can herun as fast as ever?"

"Run? Jane, he's done sixty miles since last night at dark, and Icould make him kill Black Star right now in a ten-mile race."

"He never could," protested Jane. "He couldn't even if he wasfresh."

"I reckon mebbe the best hoss'll prove himself yet," saidLassiter, "an', Jane, if it ever comes to that race I'd like youto be on Wrangle."

"No, no, Jane, it can't be so bad as all that. Soon as I see Tullthere'll be a change in your fortunes. I'll hurry down to thevillage....Now don't worry."

Jane retired to the seclusion of her room. Lassiter's subtleforecasting of disaster, Venters's forced optimism, neitherremained in mind. Material loss weighed nothing in the balancewith other losses she was sustaining. She wondered dully at hersitting there, hands folded listlessly, with a kind of numbdeadness to the passing of time and the passing of her riches.She thought of Venters's friendship. She had not lost that, butshe had lost him. Lassiter's friendship--that was more thanlove--it would endure, but soon he, too, would be gone. LittleFay slept dreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streamingover the pillow. Jane had the child's worship. Would she losethat, too? And if she did, what then would be left? Consciencethundered at her that there was left her religion. Consciencethundered that she should be grateful on her knees for thisbaptism of fire; that through misfortune, sacrifice, andsuffering her soul might be fused pure gold. But the old,spontaneous, rapturous spirit no more exalted her. She wanted tobe a woman--not a martyr. Like the saint of old who mortified hisflesh, Jane Withersteen had in her the temper for heroicmartyrdom, if by sacrificing herself she could save the souls ofothers. But here the damnable verdict blistered her that the moreshe sacrificed herself the blacker grew the souls of herchurchmen. There was something terribly wrong with her soul,something terribly wrong with her churchmen and her religion. Inthe whirling gulf of her thought there was yet one shining lightto guide her, to sustain her in her hope; and it was that,despite her errors and her frailties and her blindness, she hadone absolute and unfaltering hold on ultimate and supremejustice. That was love. "Love your enemies as yourself!" was adivine word, entirely free from any church or creed.

Jane's meditations were disturbed by Lassiter's soft, tinklingstep in the court. Always he wore the clinking spurs. Always hewas in readiness to ride. She passed out and called him into thehuge, dim hall.

"I think you'll be safer here. The court is too open," she said.

"I reckon," replied Lassiter. "An' it's cooler here. The day'ssure muggy. Well, I went down to the village withVenters."

"Already! Where is he?" queried Jane, in quick amaze.

"He's at the corrals. Blake's helpin' him get the burros an'packs ready. That Blake is a good fellow."

"First time I've been in the village for weeks," went onLassiter, mildly. "I reckon there 'ain't been more of a show fora long time. Me an' Venters walkin' down the road! It was funny.I ain't sayin' anybody was particular glad to see us. I'm notmuch thought of hereabouts, an' Venters he sure looks like whatyou called him, a wild man. Well, there was some runnin' of folksbefore we got to the stores. Then everybody vamoosed except somesurprised rustlers in front of a saloon. Venters went right inthe stores an' saloons, an' of course I went along. I don't knowwhich tickled me the most--the actions of many fellers we met, orVenters's nerve. Jane, I was downright glad to be along. You seethat sort of thing is my element, an' I've been away from it fora spell. But we didn't find Tull in one of them places. SomeGentile feller at last told Venters he'd find Tull in that longbuildin' next to Parsons's store. It's a kind of meetin'-room;and sure enough, when we peeped in, it was half full of men.

"Venters yelled: 'Don't anybody pull guns! We ain't come forthat!' Then he tramped in, an' I was some put to keep alongsidehim. There was a hard, scrapin' sound of feet, a loud cry, an'then some whisperin', an' after that stillness you could cut witha knife. Tull was there, an' that fat party who once tried tothrow a gun on me, an' other important-lookin' men, en' thatlittle frog-legged feller who was with Tull the day I rode inhere. I wish you could have seen their faces, 'specially Tull'san' the fat party's. But there ain't no use of me tryin' to tellyou how they looked.

"Well, Venters an' I stood there in the middle of the room withthat batch of men all in front of us, en' not a blamed one ofthem winked an eyelash or moved a finger. It was natural, ofcourse, for me to notice many of them packed guns. That's a wayof mine, first noticin' them things. Venters spoke up, an' hisvoice sort of chilled an' cut, en' he told Tull he had a fewthings to say."

Here Lassiter paused while he turned his sombrero round andround, in his familiar habit, and his eyes had the look of a manseeing over again some thrilling spectacle, and under his redbronze there was strange animation.

"Like a shot, then, Venters told Tull that the friendship betweenyou an' him was all over, an' he was leaving your place. He saidyou'd both of you broken off in the hope of propitiatin' yourpeople, but you hadn't changed your mind otherwise, an' neverwould.

"Next he spoke up for you. I ain't goin' to tell you what hesaid. Only--no other woman who ever lived ever had such tribute!You had a champion, Jane, an' never fear that those thick-skulledmen don't know you now. It couldn't be otherwise. He spoke theringin', lightnin' truth....Then he accused Tull of theunderhand, miserable robbery of a helpless woman. He told Tullwhere the red herd was, of a deal made with Oldrin', that JerryCard had made the deal. I thought Tull was goin' to drop, an'that little frog-legged cuss, he looked some limp an' white. ButVenters's voice would have kept anybody's legs from bucklin'. Iwas stiff myself. He went on an' called Tull--called him everybad name ever known to a rider, an' then some. He cursed Tull. Inever hear a man get such a cursin'. He laughed in scorn at theidea of Tull bein' a minister. He said Tull an' a few more dogsof hell builded their empire out of the hearts of such innocentan' God-fearin' women as Jane Withersteen. He called Tull abinder of women, a callous beast who hid behind a mock mantle ofrighteousness--an' the last an' lowest coward on the face of theearth. To prey on weak women through their religion--that was thelast unspeakable crime!

"Then he finished, an' by this time he'd almost lost his voice.But his whisper was enough. 'Tull,' he said, 'she begged me notto draw on you to-day. She would pray for you if you burned herat the stake....But listen!...I swear if you and I ever come faceto face again, I'll kill you!'

"We backed out of the door then, an' up the road. But nobodyfollered us."

Jane found herself weeping passionately. She had not beenconscious of it till Lassiter ended his story, and sheexperienced exquisite pain and relief in shedding tears. Long hadher eyes been dry, her grief deep; long had her emotions beendumb. Lassiter's story put her on the rack; the appalling natureof Venters's act and speech had no parallel as an outrage; it wasworse than bloodshed. Men like Tull had been shot, but had oneever been so terribly denounced in public? Over-mounting herhorror, an uncontrollable, quivering passion shook her very soul.It was sheer human glory in the deed of a fearless man. It washot, primitive instinct to live--to fight. It was a kind of madjoy in Venters's chivalry. It was close to the wrath that had